Learning To Crawl

7:11 a.m. -- 5 mos., 15 days

Golf courses aside, Baby A has always enjoyed sitting in her stroller, which we take around our neighborhood at least once and usually twice a day. So it was a surprise this week when, two days and three walks in a row, she fussed most of the trip.

There's nothing like walking past your neighbors with a squawling baby to raise your parental defenses. No, no, I protest as faces turn with a mix of pity and empathy or, more often, concern. She's not usually like this. She's a happy baby, honest. Our pediatrician says she's thriving. I'm a competent father, I swear.

Thus, after three walks filled not with the joy of budding spring but infant wails and paternal chagrin, I was willing to experiment.

Standard winter walk wear for Baby A has been a snow suit over her onesie and then to be swaddled in her favorite green blanket. But every day she's becoming more physically independent. I.e., she can sit for 15 minutes without toppling. When lying on her back she loves to thrash all four limbs for minutes on end. And, as she becomes aware of her ability to move and her sense of personal space expands, she's been doing full-body dolphin thrusts toward objects she wants, either from a lying or sitting position.

This last maneuver means she's no longer safe except in the precise middle of our bed. I came back from a toothbrushing break to discover her not sitting demurely where I'd left her but lying on her tummy next to a rattle, hands at bed's edge in push-up position, head raised, grinning at her new trick. Yikes.

The dolphin thrusts are clearly an evolutionary step toward crawling. On our bed yesterday morning, M put Baby A on her tummy and pressed her hands against her little feet. Sure enough, Baby A put her hands in push-up position, lifted her head, looked toward me, and generated enough leg force to move her hips forward, tumbling onto her face before peeking up with a smile. She did this about a half-dozen times and was delighted.

And she was furious later in the day when she tried the trick on her own. Without something to push off, her legs just slid on the carpet and she stayed in place. This was an outrage the likes of which she'd never experienced. The time has come. Baby A wants to move.

So on a blustery afternoon I decided to deviate from our stroller swaddling routine. We'd learned this from pediatrician Harvey Karp's five S technique to calm under-3-month-olds. Swaddling was part of the magic (plus putting her on her side, suckling, shushing, shaking) that could quiet her tantrums. And though we haven't much needed the full five S's since her last airplane ride, Baby A had always liked being securely tucked into her stroller.

This time, I tucked the blanket around her torso and legs while leaving her arms free. I was certain she'd knock out her pacifier and make herself more miserable. But I was desperate. Baby A's walks have been my saving grace, one of only two ways I can get her to nap. If our strolls became a torment, I'd be dancing around our house to rock music non-stop. My thighs ached just thinking about it.

We launched out, and immediately Baby A began to flail her arms so hard that one of her hands popped out of the snow suit, which has fold-over sleeves to keep her hands covered. But the kid was burbling, not screaming, so I was hardly going to break our momentum.

One block later, we passed a young Chinese woman carrying groceries. She stopped in her tracks, a look of horror her face. "Baby cold," she said. "Baby cold!"

"Yes," I said. "She certainly hates being cold."

The woman struggled for words. She moved her arms as if to bundle up. "Blanket," I think she said. "Poor baby. Baby cold."

"Yes," I said, striding past. "Have to keep walking. Can't have the baby getting cold."

I didn't glance back for another half-block, and the woman was gone. But she'd worried me enough to stop and refold the snow suit over Baby A's hand, which was indeed chilled. "You OK?" I asked.

There was no need. Baby A grinned, then squinted and turned her head sideways in the gesture that means the world is almost too delightful to bear. Sleeve adjusted, we marched on, with attentive head turns but barely a peep from the stroller. After a while the head turns slowed. We went the long way, and when we got home she stayed asleep for another 30 minutes.

Neighbors be damned: baby arms are meant to be free.